


A Father's Duty

by BlueEyedArcher



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Family Feels, Father-Son Relationship, Fever, Memories, Sick Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-19 21:49:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5982003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueEyedArcher/pseuds/BlueEyedArcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Connor has a fever and Haytham is left to take care of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Father's Duty

“I will admit, your sailing skills seem to have improved since last time.” Haytham’s voice hung in the air between him and the native at the helm. It was a warm sunny day that blessed the crew with calm waters and easy sailing. They had ventured down the coast on yet another mission searching for a tedious bit of information that didn’t help either men in their tasks. The crew was relatively quiet for such a beautiful day which put Haytham on edge. He felt like they sensed something he hadn’t. Or possibly they noticed something sooner than he had. This something being his son’s unusually quiet demeanor. For the past few weeks they had traded barbs often and drifted in and out of shouting matches on deck. The stormy seas they faced when they left harbor had helped little. But in the return, Haytham had expected their to be more energy from the crew.

 

Especially once they set eyes on the homestead. But the crew seemed to feel the heavy cloud that formed above their captain and in return mirrored his foul mood. With practiced ease, Connor steered the _Aquila_ smoothly into the harbor and docked. Once the ship was fastened and the crew began to leave, Connor quietly excused himself, leaving the ship in Mr. Faulkner’s hands before quickly slipping away into the woods towards the house.

 

Haytham and Faulkner shared a look of confusion before Faulkner shook his head and decided it best not to get involved. He excused himself to meet with the crew who awaited on the dock for their pay.

 

With a defeated sigh, Haytham climbed off the ship and made his way towards the house hoping to catch Connor there. As the Templar grandmaster walked the winding path towards the house, his thoughts were focused on the past two weeks. He searched his mind trying to figure out what may have his son so bothered. He had maintained their usual distance and harped each other like any other day. As his mind mulled it over, he realized this odd behavior had been going on for a few days. It was subtle at first. Connor falling silent amidst an argument to which Haytham assumed was the boy simply retreating from the conversation in order to brood in silence. But then the arguments stopped, not because they had nothing to fight about but more  because Connor quit responding to Haytham’s jabs at him and the assassin’s. Haytham assumed this was Connor giving him the silence treatment but at times it appeared to Haytham that Connor wasn’t even paying attention. Haytham had remarked on that as well. Saying that the boy was naive and air-headed but he knew better. Though it may not seem obvious but the boy was observant. Always watching. Always listening. Completely in tune with his environment. This oblivious behavior the young indian was exhibiting was concerning to the Templar.

 

Haytham climbed the steps to the front porch and knocked politely before waiting. He glanced around, hands folded behind him. After a minute or so, he knocked again but with more force. He listened, hoping to hear movement inside. Stepping back, he peered into the windows searching for the native’s bulky form. “Connor!” He called, reaching for the doorknob and finding it open.

 

Cautiously he crept inside the house, knowing well that Achilles was away on business and wouldn’t be back for a few more weeks. “Connor?” The Templar called as he quietly checked the dining room and kitchen. He was about to step back into the hallway when a loud thump sounded upstairs.

 

Every fiber of Haytham’s body tensed, alert with a sudden rush of adrenaline. “Connor!” He called up the stairs but when only silence answered back, the Templar threw caution to the wind and quickly ascended the steps. He dismissed the rooms as he passed, knowing well which room the sound came from. The door was shut and locked, denying Haytham entry. He gripped the doorknob and shook it, pounding on the door as he did so. “Connor. Answer me this instant.” He demanded. Silence once again responded. “Damn it boy.” He hissed under his breath as he triggered his hidden blade, sliding it between the door frame and the knob, working it until a satisfying click sounded. Slowly, he opened the door, glancing through the crack for any signs of danger. His body remained tense though danger seemed nonexistent but something else had his nerves on edge. Pushing the door the rest of the way open, he cursed under his breath.

 

His eyes fell upon the sight of the native lying in a heap on the floor beside his desk. The contents that Haytham assumed had been laid out upon the wooden surface were littered about the floor near the young indian’s form. “Connor!” He blurted rushing into the room where his son was lying unconscious. Haytham knelt beside him, his arm wrapped around Connor’s broad shoulders to pull the young man into a sitting position. His body limp against Haytham’s chest, immense heat radiating off of it. Sweat had formed on the native’s skin as his chest heaved in panting breaths as if struggling for air.

 

His eyes opened slowly, glancing at Haytham for a moment before locking onto a distant form that wasn’t there.“ _Raké:ni._ ” The word slipped through the feverish indian’s lips. He shifted as if to try to get up only to fall back against Haytham breathlessly. His eyes slipping shut as if heavy with sleep.

 

Haytham looked around as his son’s body fell limp against him once more. He cursed under his breath as he pulled Connor’s arm around his shoulder and hefted his son’s large form across the room to the bed. Once the Templar had the native completely on the bed, he removed the hidden blade from Connor’s arm so as not to accidentally get stabbed and started to remove the assassin’s robes if only to help him breath more freely. Connor’s bare chest rose and fell in quick breaths but they seemed less labor-some than before. Carefully, Haytham drew the blankets over his son’s form and pulled a chair up to the bedside to keep watch.

  


He told himself he was simply doing this out of his duty as a father. He couldn’t just leave Connor alone and in such a vulnerable state. That this changed nothing. After making sure Connor was settled, his heavy panting shifted to long shallow breaths that accompanied sleep. Feeling no imminent danger in his son's condition, Haytham took a moment to peruse the kitchen for some tea. It took a few minutes but he managed to find Achilles’ private brew, with a satisfied sound he set a kettle of water to boil. As the water heated up, Haytham removed his coat and hat and hung them on the coat rack in the kitchen then rolled his sleeves up to his elbows as he gathered a washcloth and a large bowl, filled it with water then carried them back upstairs to his son’s room.

 

When he returned for the kettle he heard the front door open and the sound of footsteps coming down the hallway. Haytham tensed momentarily, his arm with the hidden blade twitching to release it. A familiar male voice called out. “Connor?” Haytham felt his arm relax as the footsteps approached the kitchen.

 

“Mister Faulkner.” Haytham responded, greeting the man as he rounded the corner.

 

“Master Kenway?” Faulkner questioned, slightly stunned to find the elder Kenway in the kitchen.

 

He took note of the quartermaster's surprised expression. “What seems to be the problem?” Haytham asked as the kettle began to whistle. He pulled the kettle out and sat it on the tray along with two cups out of habit. Or out of a slight chance of hope that Connor would wake long enough to enjoy a cup of tea with him.

 

Faulkner eyed the elder Kenway suspiciously. “Where’s Connor?”

 

“Indisposed of at the moment.” Haytham answered coolly.

 

“What is that supposed to mean?” Faulkner questioned, stepping towards the elder man. Faulkner knew there was a rift between Connor and his father and it didn’t seem to be one that would fix itself so easily. He observed a lack of trust between the two men and hesitance when forced to take the other man’s word. He's been around both men long enough to understand the strained relationship and the fact that neither appeared to like the other.

 

“He has fallen ill.” Haytham specified. “Whatever you need him for will have to wait.” The elder man spoke sharply as he lifted the tray and headed for the stairs.

 

Faulkner followed the elder Kenway to the steps. Appearances weren't everything he surmised. As hard as the elder Kenway tried to hide it, Faulkner was keen on reading a person. It was part of his job when hiring a crew. He noted a slight difference in the way the man carried himself. It wasn't like the usually proud pose he carried, it was softer. Faulkner studied the elder man a moment longer realizing the difference. It was worry. A concern for his son that softened his usually stern appearance. “It isn’t that important. I will catch him when he is better.” Faulkner excused. He nodded his head to Haytham respectfully before exiting the home. Haytham returned the nod and continued up the stairs to Connor’s room.

  


As day turned to night, Haytham rose from his position beside Connor to light a few candles and set them around the room. Quietly he seated himself back in the chair and leaned to the side, his head propped up on his elbow. Occasionally he’d dab a damp cloth on his son’s skin in an attempt to quell the waves of heat radiating from it. The cool droplets of water from the cloth would draw a shiver from the native’s large form. As Haytham dabbed the cloth at the Native’s forehead and neck, Connor’s entire body tensed under his touch. In a flash, the native’s hand shot up and latched onto Haytham's forearm in a vice grip. Haytham hissed as Connor’s grip tightened sending pain shooting through his arm forcing him to release the cloth.

 

“Connor!” Haytham called out hoping to rouse his son from his fevered trance. He gritted his teeth when his son’s grip only tightened more. “Son, you’re hurting me.” He cried out as he tried to pull his arm away but the native’s grip was like the jaws of a wolf.

 

The native pulled Haytham towards him and used his other hand to lock around the Templar's throat as he pinned the elder Kenway to the bed, a low growl reverberating from within his chest. Connor knelt over his father, straddling his form, using the weight of his own body to prevent escape. Haytham gasped and choke as he struggled for freedom. His eyes wide as he stared up in disbelief, meeting the dark orbs that were Connor’s. His piercing gaze was fixed upon the Templar as his hand squeezed tighter around his father’s throat. Haytham hissed as all air ceased to flow to his lungs. His panic increased as his lungs began to burn, starved of oxygen and his limbs grew heavy. His struggling stopped as he allowed the realization to fill his mind. That he was going to die at the hands of his own son.

 

Darkness started in on the fringes of his vision when a flicker of recognition lit up the dark orbs that were staring him down. As suddenly as it happened the native’s grip released it’s hold on the Templar’s throat. Haytham gasped and choked, bringing his hand up to his throat automatically as he scooted away from Connor, cautious of another attack. Connor’s head slowly rose to meet the gaze of his father, his body swaying before his eyes slid shut as his body collapsed onto the bed.

 

Haytham started in disbelief at his son’s unconscious form. It wasn’t uncommon for a fighter like Connor or even himself to have an instinctive reaction to unwelcome interaction when vulnerable. But he’s never witnessed someone who’s reflexes were so vicious. The common response would be to grab a hold of the intruding person or to lash out at them when disturbed. But never has he been nearly killed by someone’s unconscious response. He was hesitant to move his son, fearful that he may attack again. After a long time and contemplation, he finally managed to settle his son’s large form beneath the warmth of the blankets once more. He figured the wash rag and bowl were no longer necessary and decided it would be easiest just to remain nearby. With no interactions required. As Haytham settled back into his chair, the buzz of adrenaline having subsided and inspected his arm. A large bruise had already begun to form in the shape of a hand. Haytham gently touched the tender skin, inspecting the newly formed purple marks. He raised a hand to his throat finding the flesh was tender to touch as well, but only where Connor’s fingers had pressed.

 

He released a quiet sigh as his thoughts wandered a bit at how close he had come to dying. He found the idea of death wasn’t one that bothered him. They were all going to die, it was just a matter of time. Though the manner of his death troubled him. He did not mind dying in battle. It was an honorable way to go. Especially when against a worthy opponent. The part that troubled him the most though was the idea of his death being at the hands of his son. Any other day he would have laughed at the poetic irony of that possibility but now that the thought had become all too real, he found it was no laughing matter.

 

“ _Ista!”_ Haytham nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of Connor’s voice. He looked up to see the young man was twisting fitfully in the blankets calling out in his native tongue. Haytham noted a pained look on Connor’s face. “ _Ista!_ ” He murmured into the silence of the room.

 

Haytham tilted his head to the side, watching the young man as he tried to place where he’s heard that word before. He thought back to his days with Ziio. She had taught him a few words of her native language. Simply enough to sate the Templar’s curiosity. After rolling the word around in his mind, even mouthing it slowly he realized it was the word for mother. A sharp pain of guilt ran through Haytham. He felt a shiver run down his spine as Connor called out the word once more. His voice was dripping with a helpless sadness. Haytham remembered when he had first heard the news of Ziio’s demise. He knew Connor didn’t believe him when he said he was sorry. He also knew Connor didn’t think he cared about Ziio. But the truth was the news of her death had hit him hard. Harder than he was willing to admit but at the time he had to keep his professional facade. Business came first after all. But after parting ways with Connor, he had spent the night thinking about Ziio. Questioning if she would have survived had he stayed with her.

 

He had hoped to make it up to Connor. Hoping to build the bond of father and son but Connor was too stubborn in his ways of the assassins and their allegiances continued to wedge the rift between them further and further apart. Every extended hand of peace was simply left to hang above the rift. Every attempt to rekindle some sort of relationship between them was thrown under scrutiny and held with suspicion at arm’s length. It wasn’t long before he had grown tired of the charade and surrendered to the fact that there will be nothing but contempt between him and his son.

 

Connor’s fitful thrashing ceased, his chest rising and falling in slow shallow breaths. Haytham returned his gaze to his son’s motionless form. A single tear falling from the corner of his eye and streaking a glistening path down his cheek. Haytham turned his head away wondering if Connor was reliving the night he lost his mother. The sound of his voice. The helplessness in it. The pain in his expression. Weakness was not something you would expect when looking upon the hulking native. He was both intimidating in stature as well as in presence. But he was undeniably kind hearted even for an assassin. It was the same traits Haytham found to admire in Ziio. The power in her presence. The confidence she carried herself with. Her deadly nature. She was sharp minded as well. But she was kind beyond belief and generous beyond reason. Everything about Connor’s personality was all Ziio. Except for the stubborn bullheadedness, that trait was uniquely Kenway as were his features.

 

A small smile rose to the surface as he leaned on his uninjured arm and allowed his thoughts to run through memories. It wasn’t long until the memories soon faded into dreams, leaving the Templar sound asleep in the chair.

  
  
  


As the sun rose, the homestead was awash in golden light. The chirping of birds drifted through the quiet of the house. The homestead was already bustling with energy as the people that called it home started on their daily routine. The soft rays of sunlight stretched across the room until the warmth covered the sleeping form of the young native. He stirred quietly, taking in the sounds of the morning. He pulled himself up into a sitting position still feeling the tendrils of sleep in his limbs making them sluggish at first. He released a soft yawn and stretched his shoulders and back gaining a satisfying pop in response. He glanced around the room until his eyes rested upon the sleeping form of his father, slouched in the chair, his head propped up lazily on one arm. Connor felt a slight blush come to his face when he realized his father had stayed with him while he was sick. It wasn’t something he had expected from the elder Kenway. But it made his heart flit with an odd feeling. It was a kind mixture of respect and happiness. As quietly as he could manage, he slid out of the bed and draped a blanket over him as carefully as he could so as not to wake him.

 

With a soft sigh, he slipped out of the room and onto the balcony overlooking the homestead. The morning though early was already relatively warm. The rays of the sun bathed his bare chest in heat as he leaned over the balcony. His eyes casting a curious glance over the land until they rested on the sight of the _Aquila_ docked in the harbor. The sight was welcoming though he was glad to be home. As much as he loved the sea, his home was here in the woods.

 

A soft creak of wood was all the announcement Connor was given as Haytham joined him on the balcony, blanket draped around his shoulders. “How are you feeling?” Haytham questioned in his ‘business as usual’ voice.

 

Connor rolled his eyes before responding. “Better.” He turned his head slightly to cast a glance at his father. “Thank you.” He spoke softly.

 

Haytham fought back the smile that threatened to surface as he spoke stoically. “You’re welcome.” A slight hint of pride tinged the edge of his voice.

 

Connor took note of the gesture. Of all things he thought of Haytham Kenway, being fatherly wasn’t among the list. This was a pleasant surprise though the Templar's stony facade had returned as he tried to play it off. “Well, I best get going. I’ve more work to do and our little trip gave us nothing to go on.” Haytham excused himself as he headed back inside the house, placing the blanket back onto the bed before heading down the stairs to the kitchen to retrieve his coat and hat. As he pulled his coat on, a familiar shadow fell over him. Haytham turned to find Connor standing beside him,watching with a look of contemplation in his eyes. Haytham placed his hat on his head as he held out his hand, thinking this would suite their departure best. Though he was certain it would go ignored as it always does. Haytham was partially correct but pleasantly surprised when Connor ignored the handshake and pulled him into a tight hug. The elder Kenway hesitated for a moment before returning the gesture and placing his arms around his son.

 

When the two men pulled apart, Haytham looked at Connor and spoke sternly with an air of professionalism. “I think more rest is in order. You still aren’t quite yourself Connor.” He gave a curt nod before slipping out the front door to leave. He tilted his head down to hide his face from passing homesteaders as he fought off the sudden swelling of pride that threatened to surface. His face flush with embarrassment. He silently scolded himself while desperately pulling back his professional facade.

**Author's Note:**

> Ista means Mother
> 
> Rake:ni means Father.


End file.
